As In Happy
by GilliganKane
Summary: When Rachel suddenly can’t hit the notes, Quinn is the only who knows why. Set after 1.09 "Wheels"


"I'm a terrible person," is the first thing Rachel says when Quinn finds her on the brand new handicap ramp outside the school. She'd been looking for Rachel for almost an hour, scouring the school – the hallways, the bathrooms, the band room, the auditorium – and hadn't been able to find the brunette. She had just about given up and gone home, intent on giving Rachel a piece of her mind when she got a hold of her; no one gets Quinn Fabray worked up via text message and then doesn't deliver.

Quinn scoffs under her breath and hoists herself until she's sitting on the top handrail next to Rachel, swinging her legs above the ground.

"So am I," she says softly, thinking of Puck and the money in his hand and his _"my family comes first"_ speech, but Rachel ignores her.

"Do you know _why_ I'm a terrible person?"

Quinn wants to say _"no"_ but something about the faraway look in Rachel's eyes tells her that even if she doesn't want to know, Rachel will tell her anyway.

"I'm a terrible person because I followed Kurt to his father's garage."

"That's it?"

Rachel's head swivels and she stares at Quinn as if she's just realizing she's not alone. "Of course that's not it. I followed him there and guess what he did? Just take a guess."

Quinn knows the answer isn't _"a strip tease"_ but it's all she can think of so she stays quiet and counts down the seconds until Rachel erupts and tells her exactly what Kurt did; sometimes Rachel is predicatable, and maybe that's what drew Quinn in, but she stopped wondering about _what_ and _why_ and focused on keeping the good things in her life – Finn's constancy, Rachel's tongue, Puck's good looks – steady, at least until it all hits the fan.

"He blew the note." It's not as big of an explosion as Quinn hoped for. It's a quiet, awe-filled exhale of air and she's slightly disappointed. "He told his father that he blew the note."

"The high F?"

Rachel gives her a look that says _"duh"_ and _"God, if you're going to sit here at least follow the conversation"_ simultaneously. "He blew it, because-" Rachel stops and looks down at her hands gripping the hem of her skirt. "Someone called his father's garage. Someone called and said terrible things about Kurt."

Quinn wonders how long Rachel stood in that garage, in the shadows, exactly, and wonders what else Rachel could have been doing with all that time.

"Kurt blew that note because he knew how people would treat him, and his father, if he was signing the solo. He _blew the note_ because he knew what people would say to his father." Rachel's voice cracks a little and Quinn finds her hand caught between Rachel's, and it's warm and sweaty and she wants to pull away because this whole comfort thing isn't something they do, but Rachel looks so, so _un-Rachel_ that she's afraid the brunette will break if she does.

Finn would hate her for it and she can't run the risk of Finn hating her for it, because he would inevitably find out about them and that's just too much for her.

"I don't understand," she says gently, tugging lightly on Rachel's hand to get her attention. "Just because _he_ blew the note doesn't mean _you're _a horrible person."

"Terrible," Rachel corrects, Quinn thinks, automatically. "That's not the part that makes me a terrible person."

"So…" Quinn prompts.

Rachel lets go of her hand in a jerky motion and drops to her feet in what looks like sections: her feet, her knees, her waist, her torso. She stares up at Quinn from where she lands and Quinn can see seven-year-old Rachel reflected up at her; the small mouth and the shiny eyes and the hunched shoulders of hopelessness. "He told his father that he loved him. He said 'I love you more than I love being a star.'"

Quinn leans forward, desperate to understand. "How does that make you a terrible person?"

"Because I wouldn't. I would _never_ blow a note because of something like that."

She drops down off the railing, but Rachel takes a step backwards, her hand clapped over her mouth and her eyes watery, so she stays put and watches as Rachel all but sprints away.

She doesn't follow.

---

The next time she sees Kurt, he doesn't look different, like she thought he would, but his eyes are a little less bright and his hair – while it's still ubershiny – looks rushed. An irrational part of her wants to pull him into the girls room and force him to look at himself in the mirror, to show him that he shouldn't ever care about what other people say, because not only does he have _amazing_ skin, but because he's an individual – not many of them could say the same.

"Hey," she says, bumping his shoulder with her own, catching sight of Rachel disappearing around the corner ahead of them.

He reacts a second too late and his smile takes too long to really sparkle, but there's something else in his eyes that she can see: strength.

Kurt Hummel is an unsung hero; a true prince.

Quinn wants to throw him a parade. With men in tights.

He would like that.

---

When Rachel suddenly can't hit the notes, Quinn is the only who knows why. Everyone expects Kurt to demand a rematch, but he only shakes them off, puts on his "fierce" face, and tells Rachel to take it from the top.

Except that Rachel _can't_. It's like she's shut down and her voice cracks and she's completely distracted. Quinn can see the entire breakdown happening in her head and it's some sort of _thing_ in the pit of stomach that sends her across the floor and lands her right in front of Rachel when she knows she should stay in her seat, dutifully next to Finn.

She lifts the brunette's chin with her hand and nods decisively. "Okay, okay," she coos. "Let's go."

Rachel lets her body become dead weight, folding into Quinn's body so familiarly that Quinn sends up a prayer that no one else sees it. She's thankful for Ms. Sylvester's Workouts of Doom (patent pending, of course), because _anyone's_ dead weight is too much and Quinn's entire muscular system is straining to drag Rachel out of the band room and somewhere safe.

Somewhere Rachel can do whatever she needs to do – cry, scream, laugh, punch.

_Somewhere_ turns out to be the auditorium, because Quinn can't drag Rachel any further and because she can hear Finn trailing after her like a lost puppy dog.

"In here," but Rachel doesn't help and doesn't show any indication that she even heard Quinn.

Quinn drops Rachel into the first available chair and takes a step back, panting into the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She slows her breathing and watches Rachel with wide eyes: the brunette shudders, rocking back and forth in the fold-down chair and after a tense, silent moment, she bursts into tears; tears that come out in spurts and loud, heavy sobs and echo off the other chairs and the curtains.

Quinn doesn't know what to do. She can hardly handle her own tears; Rachel's tears are something entirely different all together.

She takes off; leaves Rachel crying, alone, and knows, instantly, that she'll never deserve anyone to love, ever.

Finn will probably find Rachel anyway. He can fix everything.

---

_I'm possessed_, is one of two thoughts running through her mind. The other is: _Ring the damn doorbell, Fabray_, but her hand just won't lift out of her pocket and her feet won't take her down the walkway back to the car.

This showing up at Rachel's house thing was a stupid idea.

The cookies in her hand are even worse.

"Did you want to come in?" A deep voice in front of her startles her out of her head and pulls her back to the Berry's stoop. A tall man with a bemused smile is looking down at her, grinning. "Didn't mean to scare you there. It's just that you've been standing there for a while, and I figured you'd want to come inside." The man cranes his neck past her and squints up at the sky. "Looks like it might rain soon," he says casually.

"I-"

"Phil, by the way," he says, sticking out a large hand. _Now I know where Rachel gets it from_, she thinks absently. "You must be Quinn."

He must see the shock on her face and coloring in her cheeks because he laughs something deep and honest and wraps a long arm around her shoulder's, ushering her in. "Sorry. It's just that, well you've met Rachel. She likes to talk."

For a moment, Quinn is nervous about the kind of talking Rachel does, but this very tall, male version of Rachel is giving her a "oh-a-friend-of-Rachel's" smile and not a "so-you're-the-whore-having-sex-with-my-daughter" frown, so she lets herself relax and be led inside.

The house is less _loud_ than Quinn thought it would be, but she catches herself before she says anything stupid and just smiles plainly when _Phil_ hustles her into the living room. Another man is on the couch, pressing buttons on the clicker disinterestedly, but as soon as he catches sight of her, his face lights up.

"Oh, thank _God_," he moans dramatically. Phil rolls his eyes beside her.

"John, contain yourself," he chastises gently. The man on the couch – _John_ – sinks back into the cushion.

"I'm sorry," he says hurriedly, his tone anything but sorry. "I'm sorry," he repeats, directed at Quinn this time. "I'm just excited. Maybe you can get her to come out of there." He gestures towards the stairs vaguely and Quinn follows the winding stairs as far with her eyes. "It's been two days, and she hasn't sung a _note_. I'm not sure which is worse: the silence or the Wicked soundtrack on repeat."

Quinn finds it coincidental and not at all funny that he would pick the _Wicked_ soundtrack, of all musicals Rachel probably owned and knew by heart. "I could try?"

Phil claps a hand down on her shoulder. "Trying never hurt anyone," he claims, pushing her towards the staircase.

"Yes it does. Your aunt Millicent still hasn't recovered from your cooking experiment," she hears John throw back as she reaches the landing.

She's never been in Rachel's house before. Their "dalliances," Rachel calls them, always take place in secluded corners and backseats of cars and there was once when they got ruthless and ended up in an empty Spanish classroom, but she knows, right away, which room is Rachel's: the gold star on the door is a dead giveaway.

"Rachel?" Quinn doesn't bother to knock; Rachel would never let her in – they still have little tolerance for each other when their clothes are still on. As the door swings open, she sees the elliptical and the bed and Rachel curled up at the end of it, a giant pink comforter wrapped around her shoulders. "I brought cookies," she says lamely.

Rachel tilts her head back over her shoulder and gives Quinn an once-over, then rolls back to face the television.

Quinn sighs heavily and frowns. "All right, that's enough of that."

Rachel sits up violently fast. "Enough of what?" she hisses.

"You," Quinn throws back. "Moping. You with the moping. It's depressing."

Rachel's eyes narrow. "Well excuse me for having human feelings. I'm sure you don't remember what that feels like."

"So you realized you're not all pure and angelic like you thought you were-"

Rachel cuts her off. "No, Quinn. I'm _evil_. What Kurt did was, it was selfless. And noble. And I'm shallow, because I knew, as soon as he said it, that I would never be able to do what he did. I'm a-"

"A terrible person," Quinn finishes for her. She lets her expression soften and her voice drops to a gentle, soothing tone. "And I'm a teenage girl pregnant by her boyfriend, sleeping with the girl he wants. I'm the terrible one, and it doesn't make you evil, Rachel. Don't be so overdramatic." Rachel opens her mouth to protest, but Quinn glares and the brunette closes it again. "It just means you're ambitious. And deep down, I think we both know how you would put your dads first. And anyway, you and Kurt are two very different people, in two very different situations."

"Still-"

"It'll never happen," Quinn says matter-of-factly.

Rachel doesn't believe her though – she can tell in the way Rachel slumps back to the foot of the bed and turns her attention back to the TV, and the way her eyes don't linger on the skin of Quinn's chest through the v of her shirt. She feels like twiddling her thumbs or grabbing Rachel by the shoulders and shaking her until the brunette gave in and kissed her.

"What's on?" she finally asks.

"Some Like It Hot," Rachel mutters. Quinn stands in the doorway, unsure of what she should do, and Rachel isn't giving her any clues; there's no flashing sign saying _"Quinn, tell her it'll be okay"_ and she never really learned this friend thing well enough, let alone this whole _maybe-girlfriend_ thing. Rachel sighs. "Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come over here and watch this with me? It's creepy, the way you're staring at the back of my head."

Quinn almost laughs, but instead slides off her sling backs and shimmies her way out of her jacket.

"Don't forget the cookies," Rachel grumbles.

Quinn smirks. "I knew you were only in it for the baked goods."

Rachel rolls her eyes and scoots to the left so that Quinn can sit down next to her. "You've never brought my baked goods before," she says accusingly.

"Don't think you're special or anything," Quinn says, but her smile gives her away. "They're store bought."

"I'll take what I can get," Rachel says, and Quinn can hear the meanings layered in the simple sentence, but she ignores it – for now – and wraps her arms around Rachel's waist instead, burrowing into the brunette's neck, kissing under Rachel's jaw.

She wants to say something silly, like _"I'll give as much as I can"_ but her mouth refuses to unhinge, so she squeezes a little tighter and kisses a little harder and hopes that Rachel understands.


End file.
